


A Million Ways

by captainskellington



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainskellington/pseuds/captainskellington
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Enjolras doesn’t tell Grantaire he loves him.<br/>Not once has he ever used those three little words.<br/>But Grantaire doesn’t mind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post on Tumblr, which I'll link in the end notes.  
> You'll see why.

Enjolras doesn’t tell Grantaire he loves him.

Not once has he ever used those three little words.

But Grantaire doesn’t mind.

* * *

They’re bickering extensively as they make their way towards the door. Nothing big, nothing important, just the playful kind of argument they often resort to over silly things.

“No, but they should have just stopped after the first one. The other two were entirely unnecessary and totally undermined the importance of the original and were evidently just an attempt to drain more money from the viewing public.” Enjolras steps to the side to fish his keys out of his messenger bag, and Grantaire continues towards the door.

“Are you kidding me? The second and third - while, admittedly not being able to hold a candle to the original _Matrix,_ I’ll give you that - were totally valid explorations into other areas of philosophical--” Grantaire stops short at the door as fingers wrap around his forearm. He turns to face Enjolras. “What?”

His expression and voice are equally soft as he says “It’s cold out, wear a jacket.”

Grantaire’s mouth twists into a smile and he moves back to retrieve his coat, stealing Enjolras’ favourite beanie for good measure. Enjolras rolls his eyes fondly but seems appeased, reaching for his hand to thread their fingers together.

“So, as you were saying?”

They continue on their way.

* * *

Further up the path, Courfeyrac is hollering excitedly for the others to hurry up. Jehan zooms past him, gliding on a patch of ice, and thrusting an armful of snow in his face as he does so.

Groups of fully grown men with totally serious jobs and respected positions in society do not take time out to have a snowball fight of proportions so epic the word “war” might be suitable whenever the first sufficient snowfall coats the ground.

However, the only person who would nearly qualify as a fully grown man with a respected position in society in this particular group would be Combeferre, and seeing as he is currently jostling Courfeyrac in an attempt to try and beat him in a sprint race to their “snowball arena” and may have actually just called him “idiot-face”, all bets are off.

Grantaire watches Enjolras, enchanted by the way he tosses his head back to laugh at his friends, breath spiraling in crystalline whisps as it’s captured by the frozen air. He doesn’t stop watching even when Enjolras notices, instead just grins and squeezes his hand through their mittens. (God bless Joly and his practical yet adorable handmade Christmas presents.)

So he sees when Enjolras’ gaze gets caught on something and is expecting the tug on his arm to stop him, expression vaguely concerned. Grantaire raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Enjolras nods at the ground, where Grantaire hadn’t seen the layer of black ice coating the path. “Watch your step,” he says, squeezing his hand again.

Grantaire squeezes back reassuringly and makes sure to be extra careful when picking his way across the path.

When they make it past the ice unscathed, Enjolras looks relieved.

Grantaire smiles a mischievous grin and shoves a fistful of snow in his face.

Enjolras yelps.

* * *

Grantaire panics when he realises how close his deadline is, swears it was February yesterday, and now his folio is due in just over a week and he’s nowhere near done and he isn’t satisfied with any of his work and still has commissions due and at this point he honestly can’t remember the last time he slept.

He thinks it might be around five in the morning when he becomes aware of a shadow at the door. The hand holding his paintbrush pauses mid-stroke.

“What?” he says groggily, realising the expectant look on Enjolras’ face implies he’s waiting on a reply.

Enjolras sighs and steps into the room. He, too, looks exhausted, and Grantaire feels bad, thinks it probably has something to do with him. Enjolras gently plucks the paintbrush out of his hand, takes his face between both his own and kisses him lightly.

“Get some rest,” his voice is soft, patient. “That can wait. You need sleep; you’re more important. Come to bed.”

Grantaire does.

* * *

It’s a bad day. There are always bad days, there have always been bad days, and there always will be bad days. Grantaire knows it, and he made sure Enjolras knew it too, reminding him repeatedly of the fact when they’d just tentatively begun their relationship until Enjolras had had to kiss him to shut him up. “I know. I still want this. I still want you. Stop putting yourself down.”

The bad days are fewer and farther between in recent times, but when they come it’s still with full force; worse, even, when coupled with the sudden fierce, all-encompassing desire to fall off the wagon again.

And this time, he’s so close. He’s kept a distressingly strong bottle stashed away for a day when everything is in shades of grey and light turns to dark and voices are muffled and the world is cold and unfriendly and sharp and pointless and so is he and Grantaire just wants it all to leave him alone.

A day like today.

He sits at the table, face in his hands, the bottle just inches from his nose. His shoulders shake, either from phantom withdrawals or sobs, he doesn’t know. All he wants to do is forget, just lose himself and forget, to let the world go on without him for just a little while.

But he can’t quite make himself reach for the bottle in front of him.

Until he does. And he’s grasping the neck, twisting the cap with shaking hands, the voice in his head saying “ _you’re better than this_ ” being drowned out by the shouts of many crying a mantra of “ _do it do it do it_ ” and he doesn’t even hear Enjolras’ key in the door, doesn’t notice him call his name, doesn’t notice him freeze in the doorway.

He doesn’t see him until he’s carefully crouching beside him, placing one hand on Grantaire’s knee and squeezing lightly.

“Grantaire,” he says, and when he doesn’t answer he reaches out with the other hand and gently, with his index finger and thumb, grips his chin and turns him to face him. “Grantaire,” he repeats, and it’s almost paradoxical in its hesitant forcefulness, soothing tone thinly disguising his panic. “Put that bottle down.”

It takes him a moment, but Grantaire’s eyes slowly focus on the face in front of him, and he’s trembling. It takes all of his might, but he does as he’s asked, the glass hitting the wooden table with a loud _thunk,_ then in a flurry of moment he shoves it away, face twisting in disgust. The bottle tumbles and lands on its side, contents spilling out across the table and floor, but neither of them even notice.

Grantaire works his mouth, trying to speak, but all that comes out is a strangled gasp and then he’s sobbing, and he’s being pulled to the floor and Enjolras is holding him so tightly he can barely tell where he ends and his boyfriend begins. Grantaire can’t hear him over his tears but the feel of his voice reverberating through his body is enough to start soothing the shakes and calming his thoughts. It doesn’t make everything okay, nothing can do that. But Enjolras makes the colour start to seep back into Grantaire’s world bit by bit, and with every word he speaks Grantaire finds himself wanting to be gone from it less and less.

* * *

Somebody in the group has the bright idea to take a roadtrip during a down period to give everyone some much-needed time away from their various jobs, studies, and furious campaigning.

Combeferre hires the mini-bus and he, Courfeyrac and Enjolras sit in the front, swapping seats at various rest stops as they take turns to drive.

Grantaire sits in the row behind them in a double with Bahorel, and they’re leading the troops in a rousing rendition of The Proclaimers’ _500 Miles_. Combeferre drums his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel, Courfeyrac and Jehan are clearly serenading each other from across the bus. Even Enjolras, not wholly fond of singing, joins in with enthusiastically belting out the “ _BA-DUH-DA-DAH!_ ”s as they go.

Grantaire catches his eye in the wing mirror and then he’s leaning forward, resting his forearms on the back of Enjolras’ seat to croon “ _I’m gonna be the man who’s growin’ old wi’ you_ ” into his ear in a terrible Scottish accent, and kissing him on the cheek. Enjolras laughs and bats him away.

They stop soon for a break at a café, grabbing something to eat and drink and stretch their legs a little. When the rest of the group peel away to take a wander around or browse in the giftshop, Grantaire and Enjolras elect to stay in their seats by the window. In fact, Grantaire is really quite content to never move again; he’s slouched back against Enjolras’ chest, feet tucked up on the chair beneath him, with Enjolras’ cheek resting against his forehead and his arms wrapped firmly around him.

He feels more than sees him frown, deep in thought, and turns his head a little to look up at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Enjolras says, humming and kissing him on the cheek. “Just. We’re about to hit a really rough patch of road, and… Just, would you make sure to put your seatbelt on? For me?”

Grantaire’s chest warms with the voicing of his boyfriend’s concerns. “Of course, darling.”

Enjolras screws up his face adorably. “Don’t call me darling.”

Grantaire laughs.

(He puts his seatbelt on. Bahorel teases, but the thankful look he receives through the mirror is worth it.

And, you know, it helps that the third pot-hole they hit throws the tall man into the air and has him knocking his head off the roof of the vehicle.

Enjolras doesn’t feign innocence very well.)

* * *

Even in his dreams, Enjolras doesn’t say it.

But his dreams are confused rushes of colour and shape and light and noise and Grantaire isn’t really certain of anything in them.

Except for one thing.

Enjolras is always there.

And Grantaire asks something, a tumble of words he can’t comprehend, but that doesn’t matter.

All that matters is that he asks, and Enjolras doesn’t reply.

Just holds out his hand.

And smiles.

* * *

No, Enjolras doesn’t tell Grantaire he loves him.

Not once has he ever used those three little words.

But Grantaire doesn’t mind.

He hears it anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> _“There’s like a million different ways to say “I love you.”_   
>  _'Put your seat belt on.'_   
>  _‘Watch your step.’_   
>  _‘Get some rest.’_   
>  _…you just gotta listen.”_
> 
> That post can be found [here on Tumblr](http://meri-juana.tumblr.com/post/74026929384/theres-like-a-million-different-ways-to-say-i).  
> Inspired by that.  
> Unbeta'd, point out anything you want and I'll fix it ASAP.
> 
> Oh, and yeah, I have definitely had that argument about the Matrix trilogy before. They should have quit while they were ahead, I'm with Enjolras on this one.  
> As always, I am [cityelf](http://cityelf.tumblr.com) and my askbox is permanently open.


End file.
